


the mirror holds two faces and none of them are mine (the look both ways remix)

by girl0nfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexuality, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Questioning, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long until Bucky gives this up?  How long before lying to himself—to God—stops feeling like absolution?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mirror holds two faces and none of them are mine (the look both ways remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odsbodkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odsbodkins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Janus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011658) by [Odsbodkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odsbodkins/pseuds/Odsbodkins). 



> You are church.  
>  The closest thing to salvation since people thought to hold hands while jumping to their deaths from the failure of buildings.  
>  Open the gates, my friend. Send Saint Peter home. All are now welcome.  
>  Turn on your golden lights. Guide us in.  
>  Someone you have been waiting for is coming.  
>  Guard your heart minimally.  
>  You can carry a knife and still trust everyone.  
>  Carry it in your mouth.  
>  Every time you open it we await the sharpening noise of worship.  
>  Cry out into the darkness a sermon that does not cease.  
>  **You cannot be abandoned. You can only be released.**  
> 
> 
> —Derrick Brown

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it’s been—“

How long until Bucky gives this up? How long before lying to himself—to _God_ —stops feeling like absolution?

“Three—three days, since my last confession.”

+

Her name’s Starla, or Gracie, or — something cloying and a little bit absurd, too many vowels and too much lipstick but she doesn’t talk much, just giggles, and she never says _no_ when Bucky takes her hand and leads her out of the tiny soda shop that takes up the corner next to Bucky’s factory.

She’s skinny, knobby knees and sharp elbows and a lace-edged blouse that does nothing for the fact that she’s got no tits, slim hips barely filling out the pleats of her skirt but none of that matters because she’s _willing_ , she kisses like she’s starving for it, all knocking teeth and wet tongue and she’s not very good, but she’s good enough.

She calls him _baby_ and pushes her fingers through his hair, makes all the right little noises when Bucky leans into to lick at the shell of her ear, nips at the delicate skin of her neck. The little thing even comes over all flushed and pink when he pushes his hand into her panties, gasps like he hasn’t seen her spread her legs for every other guy who works his shift at the factory, like the key to her favor isn’t a soda and a smile, like he’s not the second one tonight who’s pressed two fingers inside her cunt in this alley.

And she’d be _perfect_ — sweet blonde curls set around her face, freckles dusted across the wings of her collarbone, the dip of her waist so small Bucky’s hands could almost span it — 

Except her eyes are _green_ and so Bucky grips at her hips, spins her around and presses her chest against the brick before he rucks her skirt up, tugs her panties down to her knees and plasters his chest against her back, tugging a rubber out of his back pocket. After that, with his eyes closed, all Bucky can feel is the sharp juts of ribs under his hands, tight heat wrapped around him, and he can think of other constellations of freckles, the valley of someone else’s spine, and that means it doesn’t matter that he tastes blood when he comes, setting his teeth in his lip to hold back a name that isn’t hers.

+

The bar’s pretty full for a Thursday, and judging by the dark, oily smudges along the bar, most of the guys who work the shift after Bucky’s at the munitions factory off Bowery are here, blowing off steam after a long shift. Bucky knows that feeling; their production schedules just got cut in half, everyone’s scrambling to meet the new impossible quotas, and he understands the need to forget all of it, for a while.

He swirls the whiskey around in his chipped glass, watches it lap up the edges and recede, glinting amber and bronze in the dim light of the bar. Bucky wishes it tasted half as nice as it looks, but he’ll be damned if he blows through more than what he makes in an hour on a fucking drink—Steve _hates_ that, hates when Bucky comes home smelling like liquor, and he’s got every right to, every right to despise the sort of men who drink away their rent and their lives, and so Bucky’ll have two glasses of water before he settles his tab, a cigarette and a piece of gum on the walk back over the Bridge, and hopefully, by the time he makes it home, Steve won’t even notice.

He couldn’t—Steve hadn’t wanted to come tonight; he’s stuck on deadline sketching plans for some new WPA posters for the library’s new literacy classes, and Bucky’d almost be a little bitter except it happens all the time now, now that Steve’s got that grant that’s saving both their asses. It’s not Bucky’s place to complain, not when he couldn’t bring in what Steve brings in with those projects if he worked himself to _death_ , and maybe—maybe seeing Steve getting to do something he likes, getting to put his skills to use instead of feeling like nothing, watching his eyes light up when he explains his newest assignments, is enough for Bucky to forgive a thousand nights of going out alone.

+

Father Monaghan takes one of his deep, rattling breaths, leaning in closer to the screen and waving his hand, letting Bucky continue.

And it’s always Father Monaghan, because Bucky only ever comes in late, after double shifts, scrubbing his hands and face in the locker room at the factory before coming crosstown to Saint Mary’s, passing the orphanage where he and Steve grew up every time and crossing himself. Old habit—he _could_ say it got beaten into him over the years he spent there, but Bucky remembers his mother doing it, remembers the delicate chain of the rosary she wore wound round her wrist, and so he does it for her, keeps this up for _her_ , because somewhere back home in Indiana her name’s carved on small, weathered stone in a churchyard, and Bucky’s not going to cheat himself out of getting to see her again.

It’s a foolish little boy’s hope, but he keeps it anyway because foolish hope burns brighter than any other he’s managed to find.

“Father, there—I fell to temptation, again, and fornicated. Two—dames— _women_ , twice, and— “

 _What else_ —

Bucky grits his teeth, and his knees are already starting to ache from kneeling on the cold, hard wooden floor, and he’ll be here forever if actually chooses to _tell_ —

“I’m sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.”

Bucky crosses himself again, but if he wanted to be honest, it hasn’t felt the same in years.

+

The next one’s hips are too wide, and her hair’s strawberry blonde, too long and too wavy and Bucky circles three fingers hard over her clit to cover the fact that he’s still hard when he tucks himself back into his shorts.

+

It’s good that Steve wouldn’t come out with him tonight, Bucky thinks, because that petite little bird with the curly brown hair who’d fawned all over him a few weeks ago is here. She’d made quite a spectacle of herself, laughing at Steve’s jokes, patting his cheek gently when he blushed—which only made him blush _harder_ , flushing scarlet down past his collar and Bucky _knows_ just how far down that blush goes, how _beautiful_ it is on the pale, thin skin of Steve’s chest, and _how dare she_?

Bucky downs the last of his drink, and it burns just enough to join the heat that’s already prickling the back of his neck, and this is _ridiculous_ , she doesn’t _matter_ —

Sweeping his eyes over the crowd, Bucky picks her out again, and _of course_ she’s running the same con on another sap, sidling up close to him and batting her eyelashes and _good_ , maybe now she’ll keep her mitts off Steve the next time they’re in and when she sets her hand on the new guy’s arm Bucky’s eyes flick up to watch his face, and—

No— _no_ , Bucky doesn’t do this, he doesn’t— _look_ , he doesn’t care, shouldn’t _matter_ what this guy looks like, what color his eyes are, the slope of his shoulders, because Bucky _doesn’t care_.

He tears his gaze away, leaves that girl to work her spell on some other idiot who isn’t his— _damnit_ , who isn’t _Steve_ and where the _hell_ did all the decent looking dames in this place disappear to?

Bucky shouldn’t order another drink, but he does.

+

Father Monaghan arches an eyebrow, but Bucky doesn’t even have to see it to know that his fifth confession of fornication in as many weeks is enough to send any priest questioning his piety, but the small blessing here is that Father Monaghan’s never been one for lectures.

“And you admit, my son, contrition for these sins you have committed? Before the Church and God?”

Bucky nods, bows his head, trying on to mind the deepening ache in his knees or the burn of the untold lie in his throat.

“Given the severity and repetition of your sin, my child, you should see to it that you complete twelve Hail Marys as your penance. Go, pray your own Act of Contrition, and give thanks that while your sins are of the flesh, you are not cursed with the affliction of the sodomites, and therefore you may be absolved.”

Another nod, because by now Bucky knows that prayer by heart, knows every word that’s supposed to wipe him clean and make him feel like what he’s done is no longer weighing him down, but again, he stays silent, because he’s not sure it’ll work another time.

Not when his true sin is compounded with every word he doesn’t say.

Father Monaghan lifts a weathered hand in the sign of the cross, his last words familiar, and in the sacred silence of the small booth Bucky could convince himself he heard his mother echoing them.

“Confitemini Domino quoniam bonus.”

Another use-worn response, ancient words that Bucky knows by heart that long ago lost their weight.

“Quoniam in saeculum misericordia eius.”

Father Monaghan slides the panel closed, leaving Bucky in silence in the blue darkness of the confessional, and that’s always when Bucky feels finally, truly alone.

+

Steve never asks, about the lipstick on Bucky’s collar or the scratches on his back or the dirt under his fingernails. He never says _anything_ when Bucky brings too-sweet perfume and someone else’s sweat home with him.

But Steve’s hands always find Bucky’s face, stroking calloused fingers over the curves of Bucky’s cheeks like there’s something precious to be read there, Steve’s eyes always find his and maybe _that’s_ what people mean when they talk about saving grace.

+

Really, Bucky should stop; this is his third drink and it doesn’t burn anymore. He’s already past the point of making it home without smelling like a distillery, and Steve’ll be so disappointed. The knowledge that he’s sitting up, shivering in the early spring chill waiting up for Bucky to get home is enough to send Bucky draining his glass again.

That girl’s still laughing overloud at someone’s jokes, her manicured nails carding through his hair, and yeah, sure, that stone in the pit of Bucky’s stomach could be jealousy, could be the last bit of upset that she hadn’t wanted _him_ , that she’d seen him and Steve sitting together and slipped in beside _Steve_ instead, but that’s not—it’s not it, it’s _not_ , and Bucky knows he could fuck her and it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.  
It never fucking does.

So he watches the face of the man she’s flirting with, appraises him, and if it’s more than just trying to figure out what’s better about him, Bucky won’t admit it, won’t admit to himself the way he’s curious about the hollow of his throat below the knot of his tie, the spread of his hand when his arm snakes around her waist and his fingers wrap around her hip—all of that’s private, it doesn’t matter, it’s not _real_ because Bucky’s just jealous, right?

Or maybe he’s angry, angry that some idiot girl would pay Steve attention like that and then be right back at it with any man who’d pay for her drink.  


That’s it—Bucky’s _angry_ , angry enough to drop his glass on the bar, and what’s—this guy’s got nothing to do with anything, but just his _existence_ sends something hot thrumming through Bucky’s veins, rage pulsing thickly along the current of his pulse, and when he leans in to whisper in that girl’s ear, Bucky’s not even sure he can keep of the charade up of who he’s jealous of.

He can’t stop watching, can’t stop _staring_ , and he’s going to get himself into more trouble, going to get himself—what? Found out? Discovered? Jesus, maybe that’s what he’s wanted all along, because there’s only so much he can confess and only so many things Steve can stand to hear, and Bucky’s got _nobody_ but himself to blame when the guy looks up and catches Bucky watching the trace of his lips over the edge of his glass.

+

Bucky goes back to confession, again.

Three more times, all told, before his letter comes from the enlistment office with his orders to report to Camp Lehigh in two weeks.

He stares at it, like it’s not quite real, like the paper he’s holding isn’t the closest he’ll come to reading his own death certificate, and the only two things that cross his mind are the way Steve’s hair looks when the early morning sun hits it before they have to spring apart, pretending the second bed they keep across the room is Bucky’s, and the single, solitary truth that Bucky won’t be able to take communion before he leaves, not if he keeps his last few secrets pressed so close to his chest—not if he still can’t find it in himself to betray Steve’s trust and make a mockery of what they’ve built.

Somehow, one of those things makes the other just bearable.

+

Picking fights in bars is something Bucky tries to avoid now, tries to stop himself from giving in to because—like all good things Bucky tries, or awful things he avoids— _Steve_ , it always falls to Steve to clean him up, patch him back together in the darkest part of the night, and Steve’s seen enough bruises and grazed knuckles for the both of them without Bucky coming home stinking of liquor and alleyways and bloodwarm concrete.

So when the guy abandons that brunette’s sweet little smile, drops his own empty glass on the bar and pushes his way toward Bucky, Bucky _really does_ try to avoid it, tries not to take the bait, tries not to give into the hot, dark edge of violence that always seems to simmer just below the surface of his skin when he gets like this, wild and jealous and angry for no reason at all, for _every reason_ , and he’s not looking for a fight but he’ll sure as shit give this guy one if he—

Two rough fingers hook in the back of Bucky’s collar, hauling him off his stool, and there are a few times where Bucky’s thankful for the weatherworn Saint Michael medal his mother’d tucked around his neck when he was young, and maybe now is one of them, because he’s gotten himself in trouble again, picked a fight he wasn’t even looking for. 

The air’s gotten cooler, biting a little harder then it had when he’d arrived, but Bucky hardly notices as the guy shoves him out the bar’s front door.

+

When they were kids, Bucky used to watch Steve sleep.

He’d lie curled in on himself on his scratchy, too-stiff cot and watch both of their thin blankets rise and fall over Steve’s chest, counting out seconds like rosary beads and hoping that they’d both make it through the night.

Because even then, Bucky knew: if Steve didn’t, he wasn’t sure he’d want to.

+

_Christ_ , Bucky must’ve lost track of how long he’d been gaping, because this guy’s _furious_ and Bucky’s already half-past drunk and not steady enough that he doesn’t catch the first punch right on his jaw, blood bursting in his mouth when his teeth snap together around his tongue, flooding his mouth so his smile’s stained crimson when he hauls himself back up, fists raised and grinning.

What the priests never say about cleansing blood is that sometimes, your own’s the best.

+

Steve has this birthmark, a little golden smudge on the pale skin that stretches taut over his left hipbone. Bucky found it on Steve’s sixteenth birthday by accident, fumbling around in the blessed, silent privacy of their dormitory’s bathroom. Everyone else had gone with the nuns on a field trip down to Coney Island to see the fireworks, but Bucky’d gotten a pass to stay with Steve because he hadn’t quite shaken his last round of whooping cough and was still too frail to be outside for too long. Bucky thinks they both would agree now that a few hours of privacy was a better birthday gift than either of them could’ve dreamed.

To this day, Bucky searches for it every time, brushing his thumb over the sharp edge of Steve’s hip, pressing his lips to it, and even if he could never quite articulate why it mattered, it was _Steve’s_ , something of him that wasn’t tainted with sickness or injury or loneliness, something secret and safe and _special_.

That’s why Bucky can’t say.

That’s why, when Father Monaghan calls for the sacrament of Holy Communion the Sunday before Bucky ships out, Bucky stays seated.

Because some lies really aren’t lies at all. And some truths lose their sacredness in being spoken.

+

Bucky stays down, for Steve.

Bucky Barnes never, _ever_ , stays down, except for Steve.

So he grins through the blood in his mouth, curls in on himself like all those nights he spent watching Steve breathe, waits for another hit that doesn’t come.  
It’s usually like this—Bucky doesn’t mind, getting caught looking, getting caught watching another guy’s mouth or his ass, because guys who’re afraid of what he could say _always_ hit harder than the ones who aren’t, always push harder, and Bucky can defend himself, yeah, but this is the only time he doesn’t try.

He thinks about spitting out something crude, egging this guy on, aiming for a kick in the ribs, maybe, another fresh spark of pain—but what comes next wipes all of that out of Bucky’s mind. The warm feel of spit on his face, a growl preceding footsteps out of the alley, leaving Bucky alone with the guy’s final words—ones that hurt far worse than another blow would’ve:

 _Goddamned queer_.

Bucky turns over, sprawls on his back with a groan, and he can feel his ribs and shoulder protesting, his knuckles raw and throbbing but over all of it, those words. And Bucky’s not sure which one hurts worse, which word buries deeper into his chest like shrapnel, which one makes him feel more sick and worthless.

Maybe he can’t figure it out because he knows they’re both true.

+

Steve’s still up, hugging his knees on their threadbare sofa when Bucky pushes the door open, bloody almost to the waist of his shirt, and before he can explain Steve’s tugging him toward the basin in their bathroom, peeling off Bucky’s ruined shirt and easing him down to sit on the edge of the tub.

“Thought I was the one that got my ass handed to me,” Steve says.

“You can’t keep doing this, Buck, girls ain’t nothing to fight over,” Steve says.

“Gimme your hands, idiot,” Steve says.

Bucky tips his face up, fixes Steve with two swollen eyes, and all he can say is —

 _I love you_.

“Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> Closing prayer-and-response, from the Latin: 
> 
> "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."
> 
> "His mercy endures forever."
> 
> <3 Beta'd by the incomparable [halfmoonsevenstars](/users/halfmoonsevenstars), without whom I would know literally nothing about pre-Vatican II catechism.


End file.
